Travel Writing
Looking for Pir Shah Jalal
We were in Sylhet as a part of an office retreat in a job I had some time back. On that particular afternoon there were four of us in the car: our office driver Helal, myself and two of my co-workers, Minhaz and Shafik. We were on our way back from Sylhet university where our team had gone on a work-related visit. While the others had gone ahead to the resort in a separate van we had decided to check out the city markets. "I definitely want some Satkara aachar," said Shafik. "My mom and sister asked for it. My uncle used to bring us some jars when he was posted in Sylhet some years ago. They're delicious!" We looked for a store that carried the aachar. When we found one, we stopped across the street from it. I found that became confused when I tried to cross the street: unlike Dhaka, the traffic here ran along organized and disciplined lines. I actually had to wait -- a wholly new experience -- for the signal to change before I could cross. Shafik had already found his Satkara, exclaiming: "This is the good shit!" That made both Minhaz and I to also plunk down our cash for a couple of jars -- later I found the same jars neatly stacked in the bottled section of the PQS across the street from my home in Dhanmondi. It was on our way back to the resort that Minhaz suggested we go for ziyarat at Shah Jalal's mazaar. "It might be interesting. What do you guys think?" "I hear that there are those fishes that he turned into Muslims," said Shafik. "It would be interesting to see them." "I'm in," I agreed, even though I did not know anything about Pir Shah Jalal, other than his name, and that it was considered bad faith to come to Sylhet and not visit his mazaar. "What do you say, Helal bhai?" Minhaz asked our driver. "Do you want to drive over there? Do you think we might be able to find it?" "Oh, it would be fine thing. It would be a great moment in my life if I were able to offer some prayers at the mazar," Helal bhai answered. He looked quite excited, his eyes sparkling with expectancy. "Of course we will find it. Don't worry. I believe the Pir will guide us there." "And this is Sylhet," I interjected. "I'm sure anyone can point us in the general direction." "Good. We can ask that policeman for directions," Minhaz said pointing to a sergeant talking into his walkie-talkie. "Pull up next to him, Helal bhai." "Excuse me, bhai…" Minhaz began, trying to get the sergeant's attention. "The mazaar is three kilometers straight that way. Go straight down to the roundabout, and take a right; another two kilo down from there. There are signs along the way." "Thank you," replied Minhaz. He was taken aback that the sergeant knew we were going to ask about Shah Jalal's mazaar even before we actually did. He laughed about it, but I thought it must be obvious that we were tourists. Shah Jalal's mazaar was easy to find; there were indeed signs directing us all the way there. However, Helal bhai did have trouble driving through Sylhet traffic; true to his Dhaka habit, he kept trying to swerve out of his lane to pass other cars. But the roads were too narrow and whenever he tried he faced oncoming traffic and soon gave up. The avenue leading up to the mazaar was much wider than any other road I had yet seen in Sylhet. Cars were parked in a row along the middle of it as opposed to the sides: a system of parking I had never seen before. Stalls were set up along the sides, which made the outside of the mazaar look more like peddler world than the ascetic shrine the word mazaar conjured up in my mind. Helal bhai rushed off as soon as he had parked, saying, "If I hurry I can make Asr prayers. Oh, what a dream!" "Wait…" Minhaz said to his fast-retreating back. But Helal bhai was moving too fast, and even if Minhaz had gotten a chance to say anything I don't think the former would have heard a word of it. He was in raptures. "How much do you guys know about the mazaar?" I queried the others. "Nothing really," replied Minhaz. "Me neither," said Shafik. "All I know is that there are those fishes that come if you call out to them. They're hundreds of years old. They're supposed to be Muslim; converted by Shah Jalal." The mazaar compound was large. The floor was white tile, with a number of date trees standing tall here and there. The pond holding the fishes was in the south corner, with children tossing bread pieces into the water to feed them. In the center was a brand-new building, which housed the mosque and the mazaar, set against the cut hill that was the huge burial mound. The steps of the building ran up steeply, following the natural slope of the mound. The mosque was on the first terrace, in part cut into the hill with pillars buttressing it. The entire facade was painted a soft pastel pink. As we passed I thought I saw Helal bhai in the front left-corner; he must have missed the jamaat because he was praying by himself; others around him were sitting about listening to the Imam speak. The mazaar was another level up. Shah Jalal's grave was in a separate chamber, made completely of marble. It was topped with a solid slab and covered with a cloth with inscriptions in Arabic. Lined up by its side were four other graves of his closest companion followers. The place hummed and buzzed with lamentations and prayers recited out loud. Shafik and I both slipped out, since we did not know what we were supposed to do or offer. But Minhaz stayed and prayed with the rest of the crowd. "You know," said Shafik, in a completely matter-of-fact way, "they say that the pir left for home before he died. That this isn't even his grave; it's empty." Other graves, of Sylhet's famous khadems, lay on the northern face of the hill, each marked by a marble border and headstone with etchings also in Arabic. Shafik and I walked through the cemetery and waited for Minhaz to come out. The open ground was full of excited children running around. After Minhaz came out we all went down to the stalls. They sold all sorts of trinkets, plaques, decoration, souvenirs, and plastic baubles. They did not seem to have anything at all to do with the mazaar other than being set in the same place. "I think this might as well be New Market," I said. "I know," replied Minhaz. "And even though I prayed up there, I didn't really feel spiritual at all. It was too packaged; it's like a theme park." "It's a tourist trap," agreed Shafik. "It's good business, though. I bet most of the people that come here aren't even Sylhetis. Look, they have Satkara here, too." "You should have waited to buy it from here," I said. "It's probably blessed and holy." "It's the same jar as I got. They're probably all holy." "Oh look, here comes Helal bhai," said Minhaz. I saw our driver coming out of the gate and all thoughts that I had had about the bazaar being tinsel and crass left my mind. Helal bhai was positively beaming, looking as if he had been touched by something supernatural. I had to wonder what the place meant to him and that what he had seen was completely beyond us.
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